Jean-Christophe Grangé - The Empire Of The Wolves

Ten seconds.

The chances of seeing the Adidas jacket reappear were now practically nil. He thought of the metro trains passing beneath the earth, of the departures of main-line and suburban trains, dispersing beneath the open sky, of the thousands of faces and minds dashing below the gray girders.

He could not have been mistaken. It just was not possible. Thirty seconds. Still nothing.

His cell phone rang. He heard Schiffer's guttural voice: "Useless fucker."

Paul joined him at the foot of the staircase that cut Rue d'Alsace in the middle, thus raising it above the immense gulf of rail lines. The policeman climbed into the car and repeated, "Dickhead.”

“We can always try Gare du Nord. You never know. We-”

“Shut your trap. We've lost him. It's over."

Paul nevertheless accelerated the car toward Gare du Nord.

"I should never have listened to you," Schiffer went on. "You've got no experience. You know nothing. You-'

"There he is."

To the right. at the end of Rue des Deux-Gams, Paul had just spotted the Adidas jacket. The man was now trotting along the upper part of Rue d'Alsace, just over the railway.

"The ass," the Cipher said. "He used the outside staircase in the main-line station. He went out via the platforms." He pointed up. "Drive straight on. No siren. No speeding. We'll grab him in the next street. Nice and easy."

Paul shifted down to second and kept to the twenty kilometer-perhour speed limit, with his hands trembling. They were crossing Rue La Fayette when the Turk suddenly surged out a hundred yards farther on. He stared, then froze.

"Shit!" Paul yelled, remembering that he had left the magnetic light on the roof of the car.

The man started to run as though the sidewalk were on fire. Paul stepped on the accelerator. The massive bridge that appeared in front of them seemed to him like a symbol. A stone giant opening its black arms beneath a stormy sky.

He accelerated again and passed the Turk halfway along the bridge. Schiffer leapt out before the car had stopped. Paul braked and in his rearview mirror saw Schiffer tackling the Turk like a rugby halfback.

He swore, turned off the ignition and got out of the Golf. The cop had already grabbed the runaway by his hair and was ramming him against the railings of the bridge. In a flash, Paul pictured Marius's hand in the guillotine. Never again.

He took out his Glock as he ran toward the two men. "Stop!"

Schiffer was now pushing his victim over the edge. His strength and speed were astonishing. The man in the jacket was stuck between two metal spikes, feebly kicking his legs.

Paul felt certain that he was going to throw him into midair. But the Cipher clambered up beside him, grabbed the first stone crossbeam, then immediately yanked the Turk up there with him.

This maneuver had taken just a few seconds, and the physical feat added even more to Schiffer's diabolical standing. When Paul arrived, the two men were already out of reach, perched in the crook of those concrete arms. The runaway was screaming while his torturer, back to the void, was raining blows on him and yelling at him in Turkish.

Paul clambered up the metal spikes, then froze halfway up.

“ Bozkurt! Bozkurt! Bozkurt!"

The Turk's cries echoed in the damp air. Paul first thought that it was a cry for help, but he saw Schiffer release his victim, then push him toward the sidewalk, as though he had now obtained what he wanted.

By the time Paul had grabbed his handcuffs, the man was limping away hastily.

"Let him go!"

"Wh-what?"

Schiffer dropped down in turn onto the sidewalk. He fell on his left side, grimaced, then pulled himself up onto his knee. "He told me what he knew," he spat out, between coughs.

"What? What did he say?"

Schiffer stood up. Out of breath, he was clutching the top of his left thigh. His skin was purplish, marked with white spots. "He lives in the same building as Ruya. He saw them take the girl away, on the stairs. On January 8, at eight PM."

"Them?"

"The Bozkurt."

Paul did not understand. He stared back into Schiffer's chrome blue eyes and thought of his second nickname: Mr. Steel.

"The Grey Wolves."

"The what?"

"The Grey Wolves. An extreme right-wing group. The killers of the Turkish mafia. We got it all wrong. They're the ones who are killing the girls."

The tracks spread out, unbroken, into the distance. It was a hard, frozen network, imprisoning the mind and senses. Lines of steel that engraved the eyes like barbed wire, points designating new directions without ever becoming free from their rivets or iron. Turnings that disappeared over the horizon, but still evoked the same feeling of ineluctable rigidity. And the bridges of filthy stone or dark metal, with their ladders, gantries and turrets, topped off the whole.

Schiffer had taken an unauthorized route down to the tracks. Paul had then caught up with him, twisting his ankle on the sleepers.

"Who are the Grey Wolves?"

Schiffer walked on without replying, breathing in short gasps. The black stones rolled beneath his feet. "It would take too long to explain," he said at last. "It's all part of Turkish history."

"Tell me, for Christ's sake! You owe me an explanation!"

The Cipher kept walking, still holding his left side. Then, in a hollow voice, he began. "It was during the 1970s. There was the same overheated atmosphere in Turkey as in Europe. Leftist ideas were universally accepted. There was about to be a sort of May '68… But over there, tradition always wins. A resistance group was set up. Men of the extreme right, led by a real Nazi called Alpaslan Türkes. They started out by forming little units in the universities, then they recruited young peasants in the countryside. These recruits called themselves the Grey Wolves or Bozkurt. Or else Ülkü Ocaklari, the Young Idealists. Right from the start, their main argument was violence."

Despite the heat of his body, Paul's teeth were chattering so hard that the noise echoed around his skull.

"At the end of the 1970s," Schiffer went on, "the extreme right-wingers and the extreme left-wingers took up arms. There were bombings, pillage and murder. At the time, about thirty people were killed a day. It was a real civil war. The Grey Wolves were trained in special camps. The recruits became younger and younger. They were indoctrinated and transformed into killing machines."

Schiffer was still swaying along the rails. His breathing became more regular. He kept his eyes on the gleaming lines as though they were dictating the direction of his thoughts.

"Finally, in 1980, the Turkish army seized power. Everything returned to order. The fighters on both sides were arrested. But the Grey Wolves were soon released. Their ideas were the same as the soldiers'. But now they had become idle. As for those kids who had been trained in camps, all they knew how to do was to kill. So, logically enough, they were employed by people who needed hit men-first the government, always pleased to find boys ready to discreetly assassinate Armenian leaders or Kurdish terrorists, then the mafia, which was beginning to control the opium market of the Golden Crescent. For the Mafiosi, the Grey Wolves were a godsend. A force that was strong, armed, experienced and above all had links with the powers that be. Ever since, the Grey Wolves have been carrying out their contracts. Mehmet Ali Aga, the man who shot the pope in 1981, was a Bozkurt. Today, most of them have become mercenaries and have left their political ideals behind them. But the most dangerous ones still remain fanatics, terrorists who are capable of anything. Lunatics who believe in the supremacy of the Turkish race and the return of the Ottoman Empire."